our reflection is not something we can stand to look at
by Exceeds Expectations
Summary: Maybe there is a story here. Maybe there isn't. But there is definitely a mirror and there is definitely a tragedy and there are definitely two lost little boys. /For Amber.


**Authors Note: **For Big/Lil Sis Comp with the prompts nightmare, black, and distressed. Also for the Last Ship Standing Competition with the prompts nostalgia, someone hitting something, and hatred. I am still laptopless and alone by the way thanks for publishing Nay!

Dedicated to Amber because just talking to her helped get my BartyReg mojo back.

* * *

It started with a midnight stroll, a few sharp words. Or maybe it started with a warm hand on soft skin, pressing against hard angles. Perhaps it really started with Barty's utter admiration and Regulus' easy smiles, Regulus' insistent kisses, Regulus' bruising hands on Barty's ribs.

Regardless, there's a story here and Barty's trying to tell it.

* * *

Maybe he wakes from a nightmare, sweating and clutching at the sheets, drowning in yellow fabric, choking on what he shouldn't be; perhaps he dreams of his father's disappointment.

Maybe he wakes from a good dream, still sweating, still clutching at the sheets, but painfully, achingly hard and remembering the soft Cupid's bow of Regulus' mouth.

Maybe he can't sleep, spends the night tossing and turning, blinking his eyes against the relentless darkness, ignoring the dull yellow glow that seems to stain his life, his everything.

Regardless, he ends up wandering the corridors, both hoping and dreading that he'll find Regulus again.

He always does, because there's a story here, and Barty wants to tell it.

* * *

Maybe sometimes he says, "I wasn't meant to be a Hufflepuff."

Maybe Regulus says, "Could I trust you if you weren't?" Maybe he says, "I wasn't meant to be a Slytherin." It's possible he says nothing at all.

Maybe there is a story here. Maybe Barty wishes it were different.

* * *

There's a chance they are exploring, as young boys do. Maybe they are playing hide and seek in the endless halls of the castle, blinking against the blackness and looking for each others' bright eyes in the shadows. Most likely, they are stumbling into empty rooms at random, searching for a quiet place, a safe place, to peel each other bare to the very bones and make music, clacking ribs against ribs and pelvis against pelvis, catching metatarsals in scapulae and hooking ankles and wrists so that they are almostnotquite one.

That's the story here, but it's not really one Barty feels comfortable telling.

So he'll tell you this: maybe there was a bright light that caught its surface, or a quick breeze that blew at its dusty edges, but there was definitely a mirror. There was definitely a mirror and it was definitely old and they were definitely enchanted by the shape of the dreams it presented them with.

Maybe Barty saw himself in Slytherin green, saw himself as one of them, saw himself as _important_. Maybe he saw Regulus in bright yellow and black. Maybe he saw both; it doesn't matter.

What does matter is that perhaps Regulus saw the same. Or perhaps he saw them both, free of labels and Houses and simply tangled at the ribcage, collarbones entwined. There's a chance he told Barty; a higher chance he didn't. Maybe he knew Barty already knew.

But there is definitely a mirror and there is definitely a story, but Barty's not so sure he wants to tell it anymore.

* * *

There's a possibility it starts innocently. A "my cousins want us to consider joining this group". A "you hate mudbloods, right?" A "for the greater good".

There's also a possibility that it doesn't, that it starts with a murder, a young boy only sixteen years old, bleeding from the eyes and twisted into knots. Perhaps his name is Roger or Robert or Rupert; it doesn't matter.

What does matter is that the Blacks say "join us" and Barty says "I love you" and Regulus says "Avada Kedavra" to the shadow of a young girl no more than twelve years old, and they laugh when she crumples.

What matters is that Barty feels powerful and part of something and that later, much later; it will make him sick to his stomach.

What matters is that this is the story, and Barty knows it's not worth telling.

* * *

Perhaps they stumble across it again by accident. Perhaps they seek it out.

Maybe Regulus laughs when he sees it, mutters something about nostalgia. Maybe he grabs Barty by the forearm, laughs when he hisses at the pain of his Mark. Maybe they stand in front of the old mirror and marvel at how far they've come, how much they've changed.

Maybe Barty sees himself at the Dark Lord's side, no Regulus in sight. Maybe Regulus sees the opposite. Maybe not.

It doesn't matter, because they don't say and they don't ask.

Maybe Regulus whispers, "You used to see me," when Barty isn't listening. Maybe Barty pretends not to hear.

Maybe they fall back on the stone floor and make angels in the dust, leave purple halos on each others' pale throats.

But the point is that there's a story here, and Barty thinks he never really deserved any part of it.

* * *

They could kill more. It's likely they did. There's a chance of torture, of watching filth bleed out and cry for help, of cackling dangerously.

There's a chance Regulus had a secret and a chance Barty no longer cared. There's a possibility nobody noticed or a possibility everyone did.

Either way, Regulus goes missing and Barty isn't as hurt as he thought he'd be until it is much too late and he is scraping at prison walls and his own throat, vomiting festering apologies and bile, knowing there could have been a story for them and he's left it unwritten for far too long.

* * *

Maybe his father's disappointment has been overshadowed with disgust and hatred and _you are no son of mine_. Maybe his father's eyes don't linger on Barty's jagged edges. Maybe his father pretends he's not there, pretends he's not real.

Maybe he doesn't. Maybe he talks to him, tells him the office gossip, chats about so-and-so's kids. Maybe he pretends nothing ever happened, that they are just as they were oh so many years ago when Barty was still chubby-cheeked and innocent.

Maybe he doesn't come home sometimes. Maybe Barty rages and screams and pounds on the walls until the elf manages to calm him somehow.

None of it matters, because Barty sits by the window - always the window, always looking for _something_ - and tells himself that there is a story here and it deserves a happy ending.

* * *

Maybe Barty has gone mad. Maybe he sees Regulus' shadow next to his own when the sun shines in through his father's bedroom window. Maybe the shadows wrap their arms around each other on the bed, tangles at the ribcage. Maybe Barty laughs, cries, wishes he had paid more attention when Regulus was still here. Perhaps he knows he is dead. Perhaps he lies to himself.

Maybe he sits and imagines that Regulus is just at work. That he will be home for dinner. Maybe sometimes he closes his eyes and pretends they are playing hide and seek in the castle, or looking for a broom-closet to desecrate, or lying on cold stone and breathing in dust. Maybe sometimes he claws at the Mark on his arm and remembers, "I wasn't supposed to be a Hufflepuff."

Perhaps he hears Regulus' voice ring in his ears. Maybe he says, "How could I trust you if you weren't?" but maybe he doesn't. Maybe, instead, he says, "You were supposed to be loyal, supposed to be mine."

Maybe Barty has gone mad, and maybe he hasn't.

But, mad or not, there is a story here, and he can feel it in the corners of his mind and he knows it deserves to be told.

Maybe there are no white knights or damsels in distress. Maybe there are only evil men with twisted hearts and a mirror that broke them both, and maybe this is a story that goes untold.

Maybe there is no story at all and maybe Barty has gone very, very mad indeed; it doesn't matter.


End file.
